mending
by jay owl
Summary: Read


The cold of the night air embraces me, sending shivers down my spine. The floor is like a huge iceberg under me, offering no comfort or warmth. I never realized how cold it was until now. Although, when I ran from my house, there was a lot of things I didn't notice; like how I still had my pajamas on, or that I forgot my boots, or even that it was snowing: my brain seemed to have been set on getting away from the place that nightmares make their birth, where the only arms around me are my own, clawing at mutts that aren't real.

And now here I am in the meadow, my emotions and memories getting tangled up in a knot of anger, daisy chains, depression, picnics, nightmares, and the hopeless thought of my life ever returning to normal. Maybe it will, someday, be better than now, but it will never be the same. That, I am certain.

My hand finds its way to the dirt, and I start to make patterns in it with my fingers. It helps me if I do something with my hands these days, if I don't, I over think, and disappear into my own world of misery and grief, and I can't let that happen, because when I do, I am unable to escape it's unbeatable grasp.

I suppose peeta's way of distracting himself is baking, because he bakes more than ever these days, always coming over with bread, cakes, pies, like me, he has nothing better to do than to give up fighting those thoughts, and defend himself from them; by distracting himself.

The primroses that Peeta planted had withered, but in the summer I found myself taking care of them, just like I did my sister.

_But she's dead isn't she? _A voice inside my head tells me_. So you didn't really take very good care of her, did you?_

I battle with the conflict of voices in my head until I fall asleep, right there on the cold ground, a barrier of frost attempting to protect me from nightmares, but failing, as does most thing that are supposed to help. But there's only one thing that really helps.

Prims golden hair glows in the morning light as she combs my hair. I remember doing the same thing to her once. She sets down the brush on the dresser, braids my hair up on my head, and when I look in the broken mirror, I see what I saw the day of the reaping: me and my mother. Only, when I look back thinking I'll see my mother, I see Prim, and when I look in the mirror, I see my mother.

Now is the first time I wish they weren't always so alike. Abruptly, my mother and prim dissipate into fog. The same fogs as in the quarter quell 2 o-clock zone, I soon realize, and as I reach out to touch it, seeking the presence of Prim once more, pearly blisters form on my hands.

Then I am running. I run until I am not in district twelve anymore, but on the beach of the 75th hunger games arena, with jabberjays singing the demonic screams of Prim and mother like a lullaby.

I am trying to scream, but no noise is coming out.

I am trying to move, but I am immobilized over my fear.

I am trying to be brave, but what little brave I have left inside of me is as dead as the leaves that clothe the forest floor in autumn. I feel salty tears down my cheeks.

I feel like I am stuck in a cage. I am struggling for freedom, although I know my effort is useless, because even when I am free from this nightmare, another one comes to take its place, another new, creative nightmare; that is even worse than the last.

I am biting and kicking at the invisible hand that keeps me from waking up, but I am begging at the same time, begging for freedom, freedom from the memories of my past, that now haunt my sleep, and even when I know that they are only simulated, something inside of me chooses to believe they are real.

I am still screaming,

But there is no noise coming out of my mouth.

I am still crying,

Although I feel no tears down my face.

I am still begging,

But _nothing_ is happening

And then I wake up.

When I wake, I realize two things at once: one, where my screams disappeared to, and two, that my body is covered in a thin layer of snow.

My screams soon turn into shivers, and from the cold or the nightmare, I'm not sure, although when it doesn't stop, I decide it's from cold.

I dust the snow from me and curl defensively into a ball.

I don't want to go back home, to have to spend another day trying to find things to distract myself from myself, to have to cower from reality. In fact I don't want to move, just stay here, curled in a ball, certain that if I do, my fear will acknowledge that it is being ignored.

I squeeze my damp eyes into my knees and tighten my grip around my legs.

"Katniss?"

I look up.

Peeta hovers over me, a questioning look in his eyes. He looks awful, like he hasn't slept in nights; his hair is messy, his finger nails studs, and when he says my name, he says it tiredly, as if it's taking all his strength to talk.

"What?" I try to say, but it comes out as a croak; probably from all that screaming, so I have to repeat myself.

"Are you ok?" he asks. He doesn't sound tired anymore, just concerned.

"I'm fine." I say. I start to get up, but he stops me.

"how long have you been here?"

I never realized it, but there's a glow of orange light dancing along the horizon, but when I look up, it's still pitch black. By the looks of it, it's around five o'clock in the morning. It was at least 12 when I left.

"Just…" I yawn. "A couple of hours… I'm going home now."

I am so cold; I can barely feel my feet. I only have my socks on, and they offer no warmth whatsoever.

But when I try to get up, I fall, because my feet are so cold, that I no longer control them anymore.

I could always crawl.

"Let me carry you," Peeta says.

"No," I say quickly. "I'm fine," I try to stand up again, but my legs are like bread crumbs beneath me.

Absolutely useless.

He stifles a laugh.

"I can see that you are a lot of things at the moment, Katniss, but not fine." He bends down and places his hand on my forehead.

"You're freezing." He says, taking his hand away. His eyebrows are furrowed, like he's trying to work something out. Then his mask of confusion disappears, like he's somehow made an agreement with himself, and, without my consent, picks me up like I weigh nothing more than a feather and starts toward the victors village. It's not exactly a smooth ride home, because of Peeta's leg, but it's defiantly better than having to walk myself.

When we reach my house, I expect him to set me down, and leave, but he doesn't. Not until I am back in my bed, with warm socks on, and able to walk again.

"Thanks," Is all I say. I don't smile. I can't.

He makes breakfast, and we sit at the table in silence. We d

"Is it the nightmares?"

I stare at him.

"Yes." I say. "How did you know?"

"I get them too, Katniss. I was there, remember?"

I look down at my bowl. I do remember. I remember the cave, the Quell, the mutts, the nights with _his_ arms around me. But that was a _different_ Peeta.

_My_ Peeta;

The Peeta who volunteered to go into the quarter quell so he could protect me; whose arms could somehow subtract my nightmares; the boy who fed me when I was so near starvation. – The Peeta who I once loved.

But I fear that _that_ Peeta is lost to the world, and maybe he will be forever.

"You might not see it, Katniss, but I am still the same person I was in the games." He says. I feel like he's reading my mind. The sun is rising outside, and when he looks up, the morning light shines in his eyes, making them slightly green.

My eyes are still on my bowl.

"if it was you, and your brain was hijacked, wouldn't you want to just forget about it?"

"Just like I try to do with my nightmares?" I retort. "It's not that easy you know!"

I put my hands to my face, and dig my nails into the skin on my forehead to stop myself from crying. It doesn't help.

"I'm trying. Can't you see that?" My voice is weak, but filled with anger and sadness all the same. "I'm trying to remind myself that you're mending, but it's hard."

I stand to put my bowl in the sink. But he place's his hand on my arm.

"I'm sorry." He says, frowning slightly.

I don't reply, just put my bowl in the sink before disappearing upstairs.


End file.
